Somewhere under the moon, sometime just before midnight, there is a man walking an unlit path walled by trees. From within the black spaces between creeps out a strange gurgling sound like those heard from your intestine digesting a belly full of beans. The man raises his lantern, and a wind blows out his flame. He steps in anyway curious as to what he hears.
Now what the man finds is up to your imagination. He may find a vicious troll who will tear out his gullet, dry it, and use it as a pipe for his smoke. He may find a hound from the Dead Dweller's Cave that will chase him home and devour his family before he can reach his rifle. The man may stumble over the root of a tree, twisting his ankle and falling to the ground, but finding nothing at all.
One fact is important in this rather brief predicament, and one fact is the point. It is that the man stepped just beyond the path when others would have kept walking on. Those who would walk of the path, whether bravely or foolhardily are the men and women who inhabit t hese tales. They are the ones whose journeys we join, an embarkment through a world no so unlike our own, but maybe a dimension beyond where things are different enough for a bumpy ride.
Whether they be devils or men, monsters roam here, and whether their law is natural or written, broken they shall be. These are tales of consequence. These are tales in search of the fool's gold. These are tales in which blood flows strongest when cut. Ham-fisted they may be, short-sighted they are not.
Turn of your light, and read in the glow of your screen. If you happen to hear a sound unheard before by a nearby window, it's only your imagination, if imagination can kill.